I remember sitting on the carpeted floor of my studio apartment. I had wrapped myself in my grandmother’s afghan, crocheted with black and orange yarn with yellow tassels, hoping to warm up from the unpleasant walk home in the wintry showers. I was flipping through a map of some of the more neglected parts of Eastern Europe, and closing my eyes to imagine myself walking through castles and monasteries with a monk as a tour guide. It was another lonely night for me, but thankfully, not as lonely as it could’ve been without my wild imagination.

I remember earlier in the day, sitting at the reception desk of the doctor’s office, greeting people with a smile and reassuring them, “Dr. Burns will be with you shortly.” They all looked so nervous walking in and somewhat uncomfortable walking out. I wondered if that’s how I looked when I had an appointment with him.

The sun had come out for a few minutes, peering through the white blinds on the waiting room’s windows. It forced me to glare when a patient would walk in, and I hoped I didn’t look angry. It was warm on my skin full of goose-bumps, but at the same time, caused me to strain my eyes, which hurt. It slowly started to creep behind a gray, puffy cloud, and I could hear the giant rain drops on the windows of the office. The sound was serene, when there were no patients in the waiting room making their strange, jittering noises.

Working in a psychiatrist’s office for a year and a half, I had grown used to the odd little quips that people had, but they were never easy to ignore. Some of the patients would shake their leg uncontrollably, as a sign of impatience. Sometimes they would bite or pick at their nails, an obvious sign of nervousness. But the thing that I simply could not discount was when a patient would pace back and forth while talking to themselves.

It happens more than one would think. I had heard the strangest one-way conversations from some of these people, and if I wanted to, I could probably write a novel. Sometimes they were conversing with themselves, and would repeat their own name over and over. Other times, they would be talking with a different person. One of the things I had to remember when taking this job was that there were some clinically insane patients of Dr. Burns, and no matter how difficult it might be I would have to try my best to disregard it. In order to do so, I usually had music playing through my headphones, but there were days I had mistakenly left them at home. These were the days that were the most difficult to get through. During the entire time I had been a receptionist at the office, there was never a day where a bizarre patient didn’t have an appointment. Today was no exception.

More people walked in, their umbrellas drenched from the rain. As they would fold them up, the drops would flick towards my eyes, causing me to wipe off my glasses again and again. But I think I preferred that over the blinding sun. They formed a small line in front of my desk, and one-by-one signed the clipboard. Then there was the decision to sit down and read a magazine, play a game on their cell phone, or strike up an odd conversation amongst one another.

i heart you too.

"Go man. What the hell are you waiting for?" I heard Lenny tell me, in a panicked voice as we sat at the light on Orchard St.
"Huh?" I mumbled and rubbed my eyes. Everything in front of me was a blur. "It's green man, go!"
The light had just turned red seconds ago. I must've dozed off at the wheel again. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator and heard a strange grinding noise coming from the bottom of my shitty 1989 Buick. I hated the car, but it was the only way for me to do all the jobs I had lined up with the boss. Having my own transportation was important to him, and showed him I was much more responsible than the other hacks he had hired.
"Sorry Lenny, I'm just really exhausted. Fourteen hour days at the plant, y'know?" I told him, as I pushed in the lighter and felt around the back of the car for my jacket where my Marlboros were, which should've been the last thing I did while driving this poor guy home, half way intoxicated, and likely to crash any minute.
We had just left the bar about a half hour ago to discuss the new assignment from the boss. We got to complaining about our jobs and bitching about the women we had been seeing, who just so happened to be good friends. Neither of us really wanted any sort of relationship with them. In the simplest terms, they were something to look at, something to tire us out before we went to sleep, and that was all they were good for. They would be dead in a few days anyway.
"So where am I dropping you off tonight Lenny? Another one of your damn frat parties, or am I taking you to Becky's?" I asked, as I pulled into the corner store on Fields Ave. I remembered I had no more scotch left at home, and I would need a bottle. I was preparing for all the bullshit that would ensue once I finally walked in the door after three days of not being there. I figured I would drop Lenny off where ever he needed to be, drive home, down the bottle in the driveway, quietly walk in, and pass out on the couch. Hopefully free of all the yelling, threats, and blows to the face.
"Actually, I need to drop some stuff off for Pete before midnight, so if you could head on up that way, that'd be great." he replied, playing with the broken zipper on his uniform jacket.
"Jesus Len, he lives 30 miles from here, can't you just take the bus? I'm running on three hours of sleep here, can hardly keep my eyes open."
"If I'm one minute late, he'll get pissed, and I'm afraid something bad might happen. I was late the last two times, and I hear stories about the other guys who were late more than twice in a row. He loves his blow John, you know that."
"Why didn't you just tell him you'd bring it with you when we met up for the next job? We're going over there tomorrow, it's a complete waste of time making two trips for this shit."
"I'm sorry, just please do this for me tonight, and I'll make it up to you next week or something. I'll pay for the gas, man, but I really need to get this to him by midnight."
I let out an exaggerated sigh to let him know how annoyed I was about the situation, and we got out of the car. He filled the tank while I looked for the most expensive scotch they had in stock, and my eyes landed on a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, $325. I picked it off the shelf and held it for a minute, being proud of the fact that my name was also John. I remembered the times back in my high school days where the boys and I would play drinking games using my name, and we'd usually be drinking Blue Label. I walked up and down the aisles just to be sure I wasn't missing anything that might be better, and headed over to the area where all the aspirin was. I thought the scotch might not do its job to the fullest, so I decided some sleeping pills might help.
As I walked over to the register and waited in line, I pulled out my torn up wallet from my back pocket and picked around for the credit card I stole from Amber. It had a hefty limit of $5000 on it, so I figured she wouldn't mind if I borrowed it for a few things. The bitch liked to shop, and the only way should could was because of the jobs I did, so in reality, the card was mine.
I looked out the window and saw a hooker talking to Lenny. She wasn't anything special to look at. She had an exposed gut, which looked like excess pregnancy fat, stretch marks all around her waist, and big purple bruises that spotted every part of her uncovered body. She was wearing a rather tight, cheetah patterned tube top, a florescent pink mini skirt that only covered half of her flat and flabby ass, torn up florescent green fishnet stockings, and those really tall, clear stilettos you see in the windows of sex shops. She was feeling up the hose of the gas pump, throwing obvious signs at him while brushing his face with the back of her vein-ridden hand. Luckily, he ignored her and she walked away, which surprised me, because he normally would have taken her to the bathroom even under the worst circumstances, and spent eight minutes with her doing whatever it is that he does. It was always eight minutes.
When I reached the cashier, he gave me a concerned look, and then glanced at the big bottle of scotch and the bottle of sleeping pills next to it. I stared back at him, blankly, and said, "How much?" He blinked a few times, and I could tell he was thinking about trying to be a hero or something. But given my size, he stopped himself. No doubt, he probably thought I also had a gun hiding somewhere on my person. I would have, but I forgot it in my closet at home.
He looked about five foot ten, skinny, and pale. He had orange hair, freckles polluting his already acne covered face, and double lens glasses covering the first half of his head, the kind that make your eyes look much bigger than they rightfully should. If I were younger, I would've called this kid a ginger bitch. The nametag on his shirt said "Jeremy", though he didn't really look like one. He looked like a real big geek, someone who would be a pro at chess and calculus. You know. A stereotypical high school nerd. He scanned the bottle and the pills.
"That'll be $338.50 please. Debit or credit?" I handed him my card.
"Credit."
He took my card and swiped it on the register, punched in some numbers, and looked at the name. When he saw it had a chick's name, he looked puzzled. Scared almost, because he'd forgotten to check beforehand. I was starting to think this dork was new.
"Oh... um... darn it. Sir, can I please see your ID?" he asked, his voice shaking and cracking, as if it were changing for the first time in his life. There was a line of four people behind me with cash already in hand, looking very impatient, trying to buy six packs of shitty beer, condoms, matches, cheap wine. The kinds of things you'd expect a bunch of frat boys to be looking for on a Friday night.
"Doesn't matter. Keep the receipt. I think you have some customers to attend to." I replied. I swiped my booze and drugs off the counter and walked out. I could hear him sort of panic, yelling back to me that I needed to provide ID, but I was already out the door.
The air seemed to be crisp and dry. Strange how it changed in such a short time. Lenny was already in the car ready to go. He handed me a twenty-dollar bill and said, "It was a couple more than that, but I don't have any singles on me." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, flat sandwich bag filled part of the way with white powder. He held it out to me.
"The whole thing?" I said, and kind of laughed, amused that he would be so generous as to offer me that much blow.
"No man, just a couple lines to make up for the rest of the gas. It'll keep you awake for longer too so you're not falling asleep on the way back from Pete's. I don't need you crashing on me man."
"I'm trying to quit Len, you know that. I deal, I don't do. That's what Amber is for. She's my guinea pig, tests anything and everything I give to her, the little crackwhore." I started to trail off.
"How about just one line? Come on, you'll feel better, more awake." He shook the bag a little bit and sort of swung it back and forth in front of my eyes, almost like he was trying to hypnotize me. I told myself I wouldn't snort any more as long as I was still in this business, but I grunted and said, "Fine, just one. But you really need to stop bribing me with coke every time you owe me a couple bucks."
I hadn't snorted anything for nearly four months. I was proud of the fact that I'd been much cleaner than the other guys Pete had working for him. I was steady and relaxed. It was much easier to negotiate with someone while sober. I didn't have the constant paranoid feeling that I was talking to a pig, or was surrounded by a whole crew of cops hiding in bushes. My handshakes were firmer, I didn't twitch or fidget as much, I didn't seem wired, and I didn't sweat so much as a drop. I was calm and collected, and it made the tasks simple. It went like this:
Meet.
Firm handshake.
Negotiate for a few minutes.
Leave.
When I was all hopped up on blow, it went like this:
Call the buyer.
Wait.
Call again.
Wait more.
Meet.
Debate on a handshake, and give a limp one.
Babble myself into oblivion.
Negotiate like a newbie and almost lose the buyer.
Save the sale by looking as pathetic as I possibly could.
Make terrible jokes.
Smoke two cigarettes.
Leave.
Everyone seemed to like me better when I was clean too. Well, everyone but Amber, but that didn't matter. I'd rather she continue to hate me. It made everything quick and painless, for the both of us.